The Words are Going Mute
by 3am-updates
Summary: "The words are going mute I can't find the remote to switch them back on Same goes for those voices in my head That repeat the things I don't want to hear" -overwhelmed Silence isn't as golden as they say.
1. Chapter 1

_The words are going mute_

_I can't find the remote to switch them back on_

_Same goes for those voices in my head_

_That repeat the things I don't want to hear_

_-overwhelmed_

Silence, ringing around him _(he can't escape)_

It swallows him, cloaks him, suffocates him _(he can't breathe)_

It's so loud, i s

Echoes around him, filling the space around him and making it empty at the same time _(empty and hollow, he's alone and intangible) _.

He knows what voices sound like _(how can he not, they're in his head, always watching, always talking) _and he wonders why he doesn't have one _(he has many, but no one can hear them except him, no one will ever hear him) _.

He had a voice, once upon a time _(time long past, time never paid back) _. He can't remember what it sounded like, can't remember the sound of his own laughter ( _maybe someone would see you if you just laughed, you know) _.

He can't remember when he stopped talking. Maybe it was gradual _(slowly stops talking to wind, to the trees, to himself) _or maybe he just stopped one day _(couldn't find his voice) _.

In the back of his mind _(past the voices) _, he remembers being silent. It feels different somehow (he somehow remembers a comfortable silence, peaceful, unlike the suffocating darkness of this lonely one).

The silence has surrounded him, for to long. He's part of it now, lost in the whispers and the mumbled songs _(he is not himself anymore, himself is lost)._

Why is there only silence? ( Why can't he stop it?) Why does he submit to it?

_(Why does he accept it as the new real?) _

Wind asks him about it, sometimes.

Sometimes in their ancient language, (the only one he can stand, the only one that doesn't hurt to hear), they will ask him why he doesn't laugh like he used to.

They're worried about their frost child, who's cloaked in loneliness.

They try to ease the silence. They shake the trees, sweep up the leaves, whistle between the trees.

(They stops when her frost child cries out, covering his ears with his hands and screaming)

They worry for Jack. The moon has made him, and left him. They don't know much about humans, or even spirits, but they know this is not healthy (their frost child is growing sick, getting weaker, worse, unhealthier by the day). Their frost child hasn't been seen in so long, hasn't had a person to comfort him. They can only do so much, themselves being more intangible than the others. At least he knows they're there. He used to talk and laugh and dance with them.

(Now he only does his job, and smiles wistfully up at the moon instead of yelling).

They are worried. Worried for their frost child, who used to be so full of life. Worried that he won't ever get better. Their Jack is trapped, and they can't help him.

(He needs physical contact, and they can't give it to him).

( _They can't help him)_


	2. Chapter 2

He never talked much, before the silence set in.

There wasn't a reason to talk much. He didn't need to break a silence, and he wasn't lonely (yet).

After all, he was surrounded by people.

_( There's nothing worse than being surrounded and still being alone).  
_

He's young when he starts talking more.

The silence creeps in, and he doesn't realize it if he's talking more, talking to Wind, to trees. He catches himself talking to himself sometimes. He doesn't know it's bad. It helps ease the unidentified ache in his chest.

_( No one was ever there to tell him it was unhealthy )_

It's the new normal for him to be constantly making noise.

He can't stand for it to be quiet, subconsciously, so he makes as much noise as he can. Tapping his staff, humming a song he can't quite remember, talking and talking and talking. He can't remember a time when he ever was this loud, had to have some sort of noise constantly. He steals an instrument, one day, wondering if he could make something beautiful with the noise.

_( His cold breaks it, and he scolds himself for ruining everything he touches)._

His voice is gone, one day.

Probably from misuse. He's been using it to much, yelling and screaming and talking and singing. When he tries to speak, no sound comes out, and he chokes as he tries. It's fine, he tells himself, because it's only for a bit. He'll get his voice back soon, and the quiet would disappear.

He can't drown things out anymore, so the voices start appearing.

_(It's never quiet again)._

His voice doesn't come back until weeks later.

It was such a small time for an immortal, such a insignificant thing. It shouldn't have had that effect, really. But he never finds his voice again, because the voices tell him not to try. It's not worth it, they say. He has them now, they say. He doesn't deserve anything but silence, they say.

_(It's easy enough to listen to them, they're the only ones who have ever spoken to him)._

He doesn't talk anymore.

He tried to, once, when the voices were being quiet. Without them talking, the silence once again came at him, grabbing and tearing and consuming. He tried to talk, or yell, or scream, but he can't force himself to make noise, no matter how hard he tries. He tries, but his mouth moves uselessly, and no sound is made.

_(And he's left with the silence)._

The voices don't help him so much, now.

Once, he deluded himself that they helped to ease the silence. He could hear them, and they talked to him. If someone talked to him, he had to be real, right? But now the voices scream at him, make him doubt himself. 'Are you really helping them?' they asked, words harsh and cutting in his mind. 'All you seem to do is hurt them.' They don't help ease the silence anymore, they only increase it, help it swallow him.

_(help it drown him)_ .

He keeps going.

There are moments when he cries as he tries to scream, freezes tears on his face. There are moments when he wants to die, wants it all to end. But he keeps going, keeps going on with his job. He needs to.

_(He only matters if he does his job) ._

He makes a game out of it.

How long can he go before he can't stop himself from crying? How many people can he make laugh before the voices tell him he's not making a difference? How long can he stand the silence before he can't stand it anymore? How long can he last?

_(It's all a game, because that's the only way he can handle it)._


End file.
